If You See Kate
by SabreDae
Summary: 1998. It's just a small bookstore. She's nineteen; he's twenty nine. AU of Beckett and Castle's first meeting before Allison Tisdale's murder, though the later chapter(s) will go into "Flowers for Your Grave".
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Since watching Castle, the song If U C Kate by McFly has taken on a few new meanings for me. Originally, I wondered about making a fanvideo running on the storyline that Kate disappeared after Castle proposed, and I was going to make a whole fake newspaper article about it, but I don't know, I just never did. Then one night I was listening to the song and imagined this instead. I hope you enjoy what I've written. There will be a couple more chapters to this but not many. **

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_1998_

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She's just browsing, staring at the shelves filled with classics, literature that has been read and loved for decades and centuries. She loves those kinds of books, the ones that tell stories of an old world so different from the one she lives in. Most of them she's read before. _Emma _was her first, though she's long since worked her way through Jane Austen's entire works, moving through Steinbeck before her high school class even touched one of his novels. She fingers the spine of Fitzgerald's _The Great Gatsby_, recalling the evenings she'd spent curled in an armchair, entranced. But it's _1984 _she picks up, opening to read again what has become the familiar opening sentence.

_It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen_.

"Excuse me."

The small voice startles her. She hadn't even realised she'd been lost in her mind, completely oblivious to the rest of the bookshop. Now that she's jolted back into the real world she can hear the loud chatter coming from a few shelves over where some famous author sits signing books. She glances down and finds that it's a small, red-headed girl who has spoken to her.

"Yes?" she asks uncertainly, hoping that the kid's not going to tell her she can't find her parents or something.

She watches the little girl grimace before saying, "You're in the way."

Confused, Kate glances around, wondering how on earth this impossibly small child can't move past her in the aisle before it dawns on her that, as absurd as it sounds, the girl wants to get to the shelf she's currently standing in front of. She blinks, tries to make sense of the notion, before stepping aside.

The girl is quick, decisive almost, in picking up _Moby Dick_, stretching onto her tiptoes to reach the shelf that houses the book. It bewilders Kate. She's only nineteen and she didn't read that particular book until she was twelve; the girl standing in front of her doesn't look as if she's even started school. She wouldn't normally talk to a kid, especially one that's quite clearly unaccompanied, but there's something about this girl and it isn't just that she's picked up _Moby Dick, _plonked herself down on the carpet and started reading.

"Are you…okay there?"

The girl hums an affirmative, not once taking her bright, electric eyes off of the pages.

"You don't need me to go and find your mom or something, do you?"

"No, she's in California."

That sounds odd. Kate scrutinises the girl before deciding that she's too well dressed to be homeless.

"Right," she nods. "And your dad-"

"-Over there somewhere," the girl replies, pointing somewhere to Kate's left. "Have you read this?"

"Yeah, I've read _Moby Dick_-"

"-I like the bit when Queequeg finds Ishmael in his bed. It's funny," she interrupts again, giggling slightly.

"You've read it before?!" Kate is astonished. Just who is this girl?

She nods. "Daddy likes for me to read, so do I. Daddy read it to me before."

"How-" She stops speaking as a loud trilling sounds in her bag. She pulls out the black cell phone her parents bought her when they discovered that no matter what they tried they wouldn't be able to stop her sneaking out every night unless they nailed her windows shut and decided that perhaps it was better to just give her a cell phone (even though it had been darn expensive) so that they could always reach her. "Hello?"

"It's me."

"Oh, hey Babe, what is it?

"Alexis?" someone calls loudly at the end of the aisle, spotting the girl sitting on the floor and exclaiming, "Oh there you are!"

Kate covers the phone and looks at the girl. "Is that your dad?"

"Yep!" she answers, shutting the book to send a smile at her father. Distantly Kate hears the electronic buzz that is her boyfriend speaking to her.

"Who is this, Alexis?"

Alexis shrugs and replaces the book on the shelf.

"Kate?" It's a half yell that she finally hears properly.

"Kate? That's your name?" Alexis' father asks, smiling easily at her. Her eyes flick down to his lips before meeting his again, seeing the same luminous colour in them as in his daughter's.

She nods, returning her cell phone to her ear, as he reaches out his hand to her. She cradles the phone between her cheek and her shoulder, so that she can shake his proffered hand as he introduces himself.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Rick and you've obviously already met Alexis here. Sorry if she was bothering you, by the way. She's only four, so she doesn't always realise she's being a pain in the tushie."

"I wasn't being a pain," Alexis mutters sulkily.

Before she can assure him that her daughter was extraordinarily polite, she hears Jason ask, "Are you there? Kate?"

"Yeah, sorry. Someone was just talking to me," she says, shooting Rick a look.

"Rick. Castle," he says again, pointing at his chest, eyes searching hers for some kind of reaction or recognition. Something vaguely rings in the back of her mind, but she's stuck trying to focus on whatever it is her boyfriend's saying to her.

"Who was that?"

"The guy who's talking to me," she answers, rolling her eyes as Rick mouths questioningly, 'guy?' "What were you saying, babe?"

"I asked if you still wanted rescuing." He's speaking louder now, obviously frustrated that her attention isn't solely on him. But she finds that instead of worrying over that, her cheeks are flushing because she can see that Alexis and her father can now hear every word of their conversation, not just her side of it. And the look Rick Castle is giving her makes her want to dive behind another bookcase.

"Erm, I have no idea where my mom is now, whether she's still in the queue or what so a ride out of here would be great."

"Which bookstore are you at again?" Jason asks.

"Barnes and Noble," she tells him.

"Okay, be there soon," he promises, hanging up without so much as a goodbye.

"Sorry, you were saying?" she asks Rick, thoroughly confused from having two conversations at once.

"You need rescuing? What are you, some kind of damsel in distress?"

"Not quite," Kate assures him with a laugh. "No, I was meant to be going out with some friends, but my mom dragged me out here with her instead. Said that there was some book she just 'had to buy.'" She shrugs because she still doesn't quite understand that mentality. It's just a book, after all, a book that will still be in the bookstore the next day and a thousand other days after that. "So Jason, my boyfriend, offered to come and pick me up so we can still go ice skating with everyone else. The rink is never as busy once Christmas has been and gone."

"I see," he nods, trying to keep the disappointment off his face. Really she's quite something this woman. She's not just pretty, she's classically beautiful.

It's only a beat, a passing moment, but they can both feel the awkwardness descending upon them. "Well," she finally says, "I should probably head out front so that Jason doesn't have to park his bike."

"Sure," he replies, giving her another gentle grin and sweeping his arm aside to gesture her first.

"You're walking me to the door?"

"Well, you are a damsel in distress, after all," he tells her, taking Alexis' hand as they follow her. Really, he's seeking any excuse to spend more time with her. They've only just met, known each other for all of five minutes – and he doesn't even know her surname – but that's enough for him to be thoroughly captivated. There aren't many strangers who'll talk to you like she has.

"It's a bookstore. And it's the middle of the day. I hardly think someone's going to be brave enough to mug me or something in front of so many people," she laughs, the sound warming his heart. It feels like weeks since he's laughed.

"You never know," he counters, opening the store's door for her. "New York's a dangerous city."

She rocks on the balls of her feet on the sidewalk, pushing her hands into her pockets to combat the chill. It reminds him that although Alexis is still wearing her duffle, the coat isn't buttoned up. He's crouched on the ground, making sure she doesn't catch a cold when the Ducati pulls up to the curb and its rider removes his helmet.

Kate skips over; the sound of her Chuck Taylors scuffing the paving slabs draw his attention, and he watches as she elegantly slides one leg over the seat of the bike, somehow managing to fit on in the tiny space behind her long-haired boyfriend.

"Thanks for escorting me, Rick," she calls before she pushes the helmet Jason has given her onto her head.

Jason fixes him with a stare, quite clearly sizing him up, so he just replies, "No problem," and turns back to Alexis so he doesn't have to watch them leave. "Come on, pumpkin, let's go home."

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**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this first chapter. I think there will probably be at least three chapters. There could be more, but I haven't decided yet whether I want to include them or not. Anyway, let me know what you think!**

**Sidenote: I'm not sure how quickly this will be updated at the moment. I was meant to be doing the sequel to the Wedding of the Century, of which the first chapter is ready, but you know, working on two stories at the same time doesn't always work that well. Still, we'll see how it goes. **

**Thanks for taking the time to read.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Whoa, guys! I had so many emails from fanfiction this morning because so many of you added this story to your alerts/favourites. Thank you! You've all made me really happy, and kind of eager to write this second chapter. Extra special thanks go to hfce, LadyAilith, rckbfan90, TORONTOSUN and whoever the anonymous person is for leaving me reviews. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. **

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He still hasn't taken them down, the pictures that is. It's been a month since the divorce papers were filed and he still can't bring himself to take their wedding photo down from the bedroom wall, or change the screensaver on his laptop so that every time he switches it on, he doesn't have to see the last holiday photo they had taken of the three of them.

"Richard, darling, you asked me to watch Alexis tonight, so shouldn't you be heading out while the night is still young?" his mother asks. He can feel her pitying gaze even though he's not even staring in her direction.

Sighing, he shuts his laptop, hitting the save button first on his blank document, and stands. It had been his mother's suggestion to get out of the loft for the evening, to go out and celebrate the approach of a new year, a new lease on life. Quite frankly, he'd have preferred staying in with his daughter, waiting for the fireworks to start so they could watch them from her bedroom window before he tucked her in for the night with the promise that everything would be better in 1999.

In his bedroom he throws on a jacket without even checking it's clean. He only stops briefly in the living room to press a kiss to the top of Alexis' head and promise he'll see her in the new year before he heads out the door and down to the street.

Already people are drunk, underage college kids stumbling past him as he heads to his favourite bar and it's only just past eight o'clock. The bar is busy, though not heaving with people, when he pushes through the door, almost colliding with a couple staggering out and yelling about going to Times Square so they don't miss the ball drop.

He drops into a stool at the bar, nodding at the barman to catch his attention.

"Single malt whiskey please," he mutters, pulling out his wallet so he can slide the bills across the bar, skirting around a pool of spilt liquid.

The drink burns as he knocks the entire glass straight back, determined the alcohol will make him forget the look on Alexis' face when he had to tell her 'Mommy wouldn't be there this Christmas' and the flare of anger in his mind every time he thinks back to that day when things ended.

He's lost count of how many whiskeys he's had burn their way down his throat when he sees her. It's the laugh that draws him out of his dark thoughts, like a beacon on a black night. He turns instinctually, drawn like a moth to a flame until he sees her hidden away at the end of the bar, laughing so much that she's almost falling backwards off her stool. She's glorious, hair flying backwards, gold in the ambient overhead lighting.

He stares, watching her every move – the way she rests her chin on her palm, her delicate wrist bending in support, and the low upturn of her lips as she smiles, mouth opening wide for her loud laugh. He can't stop himself from getting up and moving towards her.

"Hey, Kate," he says.

"You again?" she exclaims, quite clearly well on her way to being hammered.

"Me again," he confirms, unable to stop his own smile from building. It kind of hurts his facial muscles. He hasn't smiled this much in so long. "Can I buy you are drink?"

"Sure," she replies easily, "double vodka and Coke."

Whilst they wait for their drinks, he asks, "Jason not with you?" He hasn't seen a sign of the guy once in the five minutes he spent closely observing her.

"Ugh, no," she groans. "Apparently, his stupid druggie friends are more fun than I am."

"You're here alone?" He's shocked by the thought. She's too beautiful to be alone. She must have guys lining up around the block to hang around with her. In his head, she's a socialite, the girl who was most popular in high school, had a great group of friends in college.

She waves her hand, shaking her head, both gestures sloppy. "Jennifer and Dan just left. Kinda glad," she admits, "being the third wheel is really not my thing."

"Well, mind if I keep you company? No sense in both of us being alone, right?"

She hesitates. His heart stutters. "Right," she finally agrees.

It's awkward again. Neither of them know what to say. She's feels embarrassment close to the surface after basically telling him that her boyfriend isn't all that, that he's effectively abandoned her to a drunk night by herself when all she'd wanted was to throw the new year in with him. At least that way she'd have someone to kiss for the end of the countdown. He's still stuck wondering why he cares so much about whether she'll let him spend time with her.

"So, you know why I'm alone; why are you here? Don't you have a wife along with that daughter of yours?"

"She left me," he mumbles, looking down into the depths of his glass.

"Crap, I'm sorry-"

"-It's okay. It's not like we had anything left to salvage after I caught her cheating with her director. It's just still rough; fresh, you know."

She nods, though, of course, she's nineteen; she doesn't have any idea. Her parents are happily married, as close now as they were when they were just high school sweethearts. She wants to ask how long ago it was, but can't help feeling it'll just bring down the atmosphere even more. Instead, she signals the bartender and tells him, "The next round's on me," ordering Rick another whiskey for him to drown his sorrows in rather than her.

"You got ID?"

She fiddles with her purse, drawing out the plastic card. Her breath is trapped, her teeth digging into her bottom lip as she hands it across and prays that the fake is good enough. The barman hands it back to her without a word, taking two glasses and filling them with ice. Before she can stow the card back inside her bag though, it's plucked from between her fingers.

"Katherine Harlow, huh?" he reads, flicking his eyes over to her.

"One and the same," she nods, blushing as he gives her a grin and tells her he likes it, that it suits her. She knows she should have told him the truth, but what's one lie going to do? It's not like she's ever going to see him again.

Before they know it, they've been talking (and drinking) for hours, and the bar's television has been switched on, displaying the scene at Times Square in the final moments leading up to 1999.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five," they chant together.

At four, she smiles, teeth flashing, eyes twinkling.

At three he returns it, shifting unconsciously in his seat so that their arms are touching.

At two, she looks down at their joined skin then back to his face; or rather, his lips.

At one, he thinks, "_What the Hell," _and melds his lips with hers.

Then it's a flurry of movement, pulling away and shouting, "Happy New Year," with everyone else in the bar. People rush past, making for the streets and before she can leave, he grabs the ever present pen from his pocket and scrawls his number on her arm. He blinks, committing her shy smile when they drew apart to memory. And just like that, she's gone.

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**A/N: So let me know what you think! Thanks again for reading. **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Seriously, thank you so much guys! I'm so gratified by your response to this little story. I wasn't really expecting that much, so I'm so glad so many of you are enjoying it. The reviews I read last night and this morning cheered me up so much!**

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_1999_

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He doesn't know why he can do it all of a sudden. He just can. He sat down one day, just a few days into the New Year, opened his laptop and when he looked at the blank screen that represented his next novel, all of a sudden there were words, so many words, springing into his mind and begging to be committed to the page. He hasn't written so much since his first ever novel, the piece of trash he never even submitted for publishing. But being busy is good. If he's not writing, he's taking Alexis to school, picking her up, getting the groceries, or making sure his daughter's not bored. He doesn't have time to think about Meredith and his divorce anymore.

He's already submitted the first three chapters of _Derrick Storm_ to his new agent. She's maybe more critical than Robert ever was, but she's been ruthless in renegotiating his contract with _Black Pawn. _Although they didn't quite hit it off to begin with, she's growing on him, and he's looking forward to receiving her comments on what he's got so far. Though, it'd be nice to meet her in person at least once, he decides.

In the back of his mind though, he wonders a little about Kate.

The call comes out of the blue, a number he doesn't even recognise, and for a second before he picks the handset up and says, "Hello?" he entertains the notion that it's her.

"Have you seen her?" It's a man. A gruff, impolite one at that.

"Sorry who is this?" he enquires.

"It's Jason. So have you seen her?"

He wracks his brain for a moment, trying to work out if he knows a Jason. He's just about to accuse the caller of wasting his time with prank calls when he remembers that her boyfriend had been called Jason, hadn't he? "Who, Kate?"

"Yeah, she's been missing for a few days; we're worried about her. I found this number written down on a piece of paper tucked in her journal." Rick doesn't miss the tone of accusation colouring Jason's voice. "So have you seen her?"

"Afraid not," he answers honestly.

Jason sighs. "Right well, if you do hear from her at all, call me back on this number would you?"

"Of course," Rick replies not a moment too soon. He stares at the phone, the dull buzz of the disconnected line ringing in his ears as the worry begins to hit him. Does Jason know? Is that why she's disappeared? He hopes she's alright, that whatever's happened, it's not because of him, because of their kiss.

When he leaves the writing and the loft behind to go and pick Alexis up from school, he can't help inspecting every face he passes, searching for her exquisite hazel and gold eyes, or a wavy flash of her chestnut hair. He doesn't see her, of course. The universe just isn't that serendipitous.

All the way back, he continues however, and the action doesn't go unnoticed by Alexis when he cranes his neck around to get a second look at a woman who had the exact same colour as Kate, though it wasn't hanging loosely down her back, but pulled into braid. She's too short though.

"What are you doing, Dad?" she asks when he turns his head back around.

"Just looking for someone, pumpkin."

"Who?"

He doesn't know whether to tell her. What if he worried her? Still, he's never lied to her before and he doesn't want to start now. "Do you remember the lady from the bookstore a couple of weeks ago?"

She nods. "She's read _Moby Dick_ too, Dad."

He smiles, the emotion wearing thin on his face at the new piece of information. "Lots of people have read it. It's a good book, Alexis. What I was going to say though, was that I just found out she's missing, so I'm looking for her."

He watches as his daughter seems to think on this for a moment. "I can help you look," she offers. It's so sweet, and adorable, and he can't help wondering what on earth he did to deserve this perfect child. There's no way he was ever that kind and generous when he was four. His eyes crinkle as he smiles, and drops her hand, taking her little body under the armpits instead to hoist her up onto his shoulders.

"Guess you'd better sit up here so you can see then, pumpkin."

She's just as disappointed as him when they make it back to the loft and haven't managed to spot Kate anyway.

"Maybe we'll see her tomorrow," he says, hoping however that Alexis will forget all about it. He doesn't want this to turn into some kind of game, because it's a serious situation. Anything could have happened.

After a day, he's ringing Jason back, looking for news and feeling disappointed when her boyfriend reports that they still haven't found her. There's still nothing the next day, or the day after, or for a week, and then the guy just stops answering his calls, the douchebag that he is. By then he's lost all hope. He doesn't know what to think. Is he not answering because Kate's been found safe and sound and he doesn't need him anymore or worse because she's been found but discovered too late.

He remembers telling her that New York is a dangerous place and wonders if maybe he unwittingly hit the nail on the head that day and if something terrible has happened to her. It has him checking through all the recent news stories, but the only stories he finds are about the murder of a lawyer called Johanna Beckett, a car crash that killed four people and injured seven more, a fire downtown and a worryingly large spate of other crimes that have been taxing the city police since before Christmas.

Alexis notices that he's become obsessed with reading the paper too, but he doesn't tell her why or let her read what he's reading. His urge to protect her is greater than ever.

It takes him weeks to stop looking in the newspaper for the name Katherine Harlow every morning when he gets up and eats breakfast with Alexis. But he has to stop. It's becoming too depressing to purposefully search out and read all of the news stories about the violence and deaths in the city.

It's another few months before he finally becomes too busy with research for his book, training with the CIA and a seductress of an agent, Sophia Turner who's more than willing to help inspire him late at night, to keep searching for signs of the young woman who invaded his thoughts and then just disappeared one day.

After a while, he begins to wonder if maybe he imagined the whole thing, if she was just some figment of his imagination that developed just to help him get over his writer's block and out of the funk that his divorce put him in.

Before he knows it, it's been a year and life has moved on. His book, _Derrick Storm, _is number one of the Times Bestseller List, his daughter is doing amazingly in school and he's already been given the greenlight for another three Derrick Storm novels, the first of which he's a quarter of the way through already. Things are good. Okay, so his tryst with Sophia didn't end all that well, but things are looking up because he's got that date tonight with Gina, his agent of all people. He doesn't need to think about Katherine Harlow anymore.

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**A/N: So this is the third chapter. There will definitely be a fourth chapter taking place in 2009, during the episode Flowers for your Grave. As for whether there will be others, I'm toying with the idea of doing a related oneshot to show what's going on with Kate during this chapter, and could possibly run into some other episodes of the first season. If you would like that please do review to say so. **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! I know I told some of you that this chapter would probably be up yesterday, so sorry for the delay. I was at a concert Tuesday night and didn't get home until nearly three o'clock in the morning because the London Underground wasn't running, so I was too tired to write on Wednesday and then some stuff happened on Thursday so I ended up being too busy. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. I'm undecided on it.**

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_2009_

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She takes a steadying breath before opening the car door. She has to do this. The department, her team, they're all counting on her to push aside her stupid anxieties and worries over whether he's going to remember and bring him in. All it takes to get her past the two security guards and woman with a guestlist stood at the double glass front doors is a flash of her badge. She half wishes it had taken longer for them to let her through to the book launch party, that she could have prolonged the inevitable meeting for at least a tiny bit. In her mind, that in itself is odd. She's loved every single one of his books for some time now; she should be delighted to be at the launch party for the next _Derrick Storm _novel.

The deep red lighting unsettles her as she steps inside and looks around for his roguish hair and devilishly handsome face. Someone kindly points her in the right direction of the author, rolling their eyes because they think she's just another one of his bimbos, after his autograph and his money. They couldn't be anymore wrong, though.

"Mr Castle?" she calls ahead, already internally squirming as he starts to turn around.

Once more his pen is at the ready. "Where would you like it?" he asks, grinning.

She's pictured that smile and those eyes a thousand times since she last saw them. Every time she opens one of his books, she sees his face smiling up at her from his book jacket. But it's not the same as seeing him in person; the picture isn't genuine. It doesn't capture how his eyes light up when he truly smiles, how one of his cheeks dimples while the other doesn't. On the book jacket, he looks like he's smirking because he knows he's got you. In real life, in her memories, he is always smiling like a blind man taught to see.

"Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD. We need to ask you a few questions about a murder that took place earlier tonight."

She can't help smirking a little at the flabbergasted look that completely takes over his face. She still gets that tiny rush every time she sees it when she arrests someone. They always think they're so invincible criminals. She just hopes one day she gets to watch the son of a bitch who murdered her mother's face transform like it.

Suddenly a red-headed girl appears at his shoulder, her animated expression of both amusement and slight concern a stark contrast to the stunned one that seems to have frozen on his face.

Her heart stutters as she recognises her. It's Alexis. But she's changed so much.

"_Well, it has been ten years," _Kate thinks to herself. Her eyes pass over the girl who was only four when she'd last seen her. That day in the bookstore has been ingrained in her memories for some time. Although she's older, taller, quite clearly in the middle of her teens, Alexis' father, Richard Castle doesn't look as if he's aged a day.

"That's new," Alexis says, taking the pen from her father's hand and going back to whatever she was doing while he spirals, not knowing what to do.

* * *

The fact that he's sat in an interrogation room, that there are likely people watching him through the two-way mirror doesn't bother him in the slightest. All he's thought about since he turned around with his sharpie held aloft is those eyes.

He would recognise them anywhere, he's sure.

He's jolted from his memory by the door opening and closing loudly to his right.

"Mr Castle, you've got quite a rap sheet for a best-selling author," she says, not bothering with pleasantries since she already told him everything she wanted him to know about her at the party. "Disorderly conduct, resisting arrest."

He shrugs, he knows what she's trying to do. It's _her _room, she's in control and she's already trying to make that clear to him by first her choice to remain standing, so she towers above him, and listing his misdoings. He's done much the same with characters in his books. "Boys will be boys," he replies.

She smiles humourlessly. Of course he would think this was some kind of game. He'd been just the same back then.

"Says here that you stole a police horse?"

"Borrowed," he corrects.

"Ah." The next part is the kicker though. "And you were nude at the time."

"It was spring," he explains.

"And every time the charges were dropped." Finally she drops into the seat across from him, finding that her initial tactic hasn't worked. Every attack she makes, he meets her midway, parrying with some trick of his own that sends her back to square one.

"What can I say? The mayor's a fan but if it makes you feel any better I'd be happy to let you spank me."

She wonders when he turned into this cocky prat. She doesn't remember him like that. She remembers him as the sweet and responsible father who'd been determined to escort her safely to her ride, the chatty drinking companion who'd been all too willing to confide his troubles of the heart in her. She wishes she knew what changed. Because, all these years she's been thinking of what this moment between them might be. And the reality does not live up to the fantasy.

She doesn't rise to his suggestion, just opens the file in front of her. "Mr Castle, this whole bad boy charm-thing that you've got going might work for bimbettes and celebutantes; me? I work for a living, so that makes you one of two things in my world: either the guy who makes my life easier or the guy who makes my life harder, and trust me you do not wanna be the guy who makes my life harder."

She knows she's too close. She can practically feel his breath on her skin as he appraises her.

He's looking at her eyes again, the soulful green and the flash of gold. They look just like hers, but when he looks at the bigger picture? Her hair, her pinched lips, the work slacks and buttoned up shirt? He's left confused.

She'd said her name was Kate Beckett, not Kate _Harlow_. That's not a problem though – she could have married, he thinks, though he sees no rings adorning her finger.

All that's going on in the back of his mind as he tells her, "Okay," with another cheeky smirk because he can see that he's finally beginning to affect her, even if it's just that she's becoming slightly annoyed and kind of frustrated with him.

She leans back and slides the first picture towards him, thinking she's finally victorious. "Allison Tisdale, daughter of real estate mogul Jonathan Tisdale."

"She's pretty," he mutters.

"She's dead," Kate states, continuing even whilst he raises his head in shock. "Did you ever meet her?" She looks up from the picture too, finds him watching her. "Book signing?" she suggests. She's watching him hopefully, wishing that she's the only person he met at a book signing of his. The fact that he doesn't seem to remember her, hasn't said anything to even hint that he does, makes her feel confident enough to start pushing again, searching for his buttons. "Charity event?"

"It's possible. She's not in my little black book if that's what you're asking."

"What about this guy?" she pulls the photo of Marvin Fisk from the folder and covers the face of Allison Tisdale with it. "Marvin Fisk, small claims lawyer."

"Most of my claims tend to be on the erm… _large _side."

She rolls her eyes. Of course he's the kind of guy who enjoys teasing her with euphemisms and innuendos.

"So what's this got to do with me?" he asks, having had enough of sitting in the interrogation room.

"Fisk was found murdered in his office two weeks ago. I didn't put it together until we saw the Tisdale crime scene tonight," she says as she retrieves the photo of Allison Tisdale's body out.

He draws back, quite clearly recognising the scene from _Flowers for your Grave _as easily as she did.

He says as much, so she pulls out the next image.

"And this is how we found Marvin Fisk. Right out of _Hell Hath No Fury_." She can't wait to hear how he's going to try and talk himself out of it. She doesn't even realise how overconfident she's become, doesn't realise that he's doubting his own assurance that the woman interviewing him couldn't possibly be the young girl he met in _Barnes and Noble _in just after Christmas in 1998 and kissed on New Year's Eve.

"Looks like I have a fan," he says, hoping to trap her.

"Yeah, a really deranged fan."

"Oh you don't look deranged to me."

"What?" She could kick him, she wants to. All she has to do is uncross her legs and _accidentally_ have the pointed tip of her shoe's toe collide forcefully with his shin.

His tongue pokes out. "_Hell Hath No Fury_? Angry Wiccans out for blood? Come on," he laughs, oblivious to the level of her love for each and every one of his books. "Only hardcore Castle groupies read that one."

She shakes her head, disbelieving of how insulting he actually is. Why did she ever think it would be a good idea to kiss him? Somewhere in her apartment, she still has his phone number. Once or twice, on the hard nights, she's even thought about calling him. "Do any of these g-groupies ever write you letters?" she asks, stuttering over the word she can't bear to use in relation to herself.

He nods.

"Disturbing letters?"

"Oh, all my fanmail's disturbing. It's an occupational hazard."

"_Did he just say that _boastfully_?" _

"Because sometimes in cases like this we find that the killer attempts to-"

"-contact the subject of his obsession," he continues, surprising her. "I'm also pretty well versed in psychopathic methodologies – another occupational hazard." She's staring at him. For a brief second she saw through this little façade of his, and then that arrogant tone came back.

"_Does he think he's better at this than _me? _Nobody's better at this job than me._"

"Did you know you have gorgeous eyes?"

It snaps her out of it. This has gone too far. He's too close. What if he knows? She snatches the pictures back from across the table, putting them back into the folder as quickly as she can because she just wants out of that room. It's supposed to be _her_ room, but somehow it's quickly becoming his.

"So I take it that you won't have any objection to us going through your mail?"

"Knock yourself out," he tells her as she gets up to leave, then raising his finger to follow her like something's just occurred to him. "Can I get copies of those?"

She pauses, wondering if maybe her read on him is wrong, if he's actually just completely morbid. "Copies?"

"I have this poker game, it's mostly other writers – Patterson, Cannell, you know bestsellers – you have no idea how jealous those would make them."

"Jealous?" She literally can't believe this.

"That I have a copycat. Oh my gosh, in my world, that's the red badge of honour, that's the criminal Cooperstown."

The file drops from her hand and she's leaning over the table until she's right in his face. It's just the kind of behaviour she can't stand, people who have no respect for the dead. "People are dead, Mr Castle," she tells him bluntly.

His mouth opens and he looks away, her gaze too intent as he replies, "I'm not asking for the bodies, just the pictures." He knows he's probably pushing too far, but he's kept this persona up for so many years that sometimes it's hard to stop it taking over. It's what happens as he bites his lip and holds her glare.

"I think we're done here."

* * *

All that night, lying in his own bed – finally – he's stuck thinking about her. Whiskey addled memories of luscious gold hair, unbelievably soft lips, flushing cheeks and the tang of vodka on his tongue fill his mind, before those eyes, those beautiful, beautiful eyes come back to haunt him.

"_It has to be her_," he thinks. He's never seen eyes like them again until tonight. He has to know if it's her. Forsaking the comfort of his bed, he heads back into his office and reboots his laptop. As soon as it's finished loading, he opens the internet and begins searching.

Come morning, he hasn't discovered much more than her date of birth. November 17th 1979. That puts another hole in his theory. She's two years too young to be the girl he met ten years ago. But why does she look so much like her?

He has to go back to the 12th precinct; it's as simple as that.

* * *

He enjoys how flustered she is by his arrival and her captain's refusal to budge on him working with her to solve the murders of Allison Tisdale and Marvin Fisk.

He can still feel her hostility as they each read through piles of his fanmail. Whilst she reads, he takes the opportunity to watch her and the flick right of her eyes. Frankly, he watches her all day. He can feel the urge to ask her whether she's ever been to one of his book signings or if they've met before, but he's afraid. He knows as soon as he opens his mouth to tell her that the furrow of her brow is cute that he's made the right choice in not saying anything because she's more than hostile towards him.

When he reads her, he doesn't even know where half of it is coming from. He didn't consciously think any of it, it's just coming from his mouth and as soon as it leaves, he regrets the words. She looks hurt, a depth of sadness in his eyes that he has never seen in anyone.

The girl he met in January hadn't looked like she'd ever known such sorrow.

She freezes. He's made her. There's no way he could read her that well if he didn't know what she was like before, if he hadn't known her back then when she was carefree and knew what it was like to laugh and have fun. Back when she was a wild child at Stanford with a big, wide future ahead of her.

Finally she forces out the words, "Cute trick," unwilling to tell him what really happened back then.

* * *

The more time he spends with her that day, the more enamoured he feels. She's astounding. The way she commands a room of officers, the way she owns an interrogation and her suspect. She's death in heels. Beauty in a bulletproof vest. That little roll of her eyes every time he disobeys one of her orders, it's the most adorable thing he's seen apart from his daughter.

She may be caustic and antagonistic towards him, but that just makes him want her more. And he knows that if he's ever going to get her, he can't say anything about Katherine Harlow.

The next day, he finds her appearance at Jonathan Tisdale's office makes him a stuttering mess. She surprises him, inviting him up with her, working with him again when he was practically kicked out of the precinct by her captain after his mother and daughter bailed him out because she arrested him. She kind of seems like a different person, because he finds that all of the hostility she was directing towards him was gone though he has no idea why.

It's not even a conscious thing. Ever since his insistence that Kyle Cabot was innocent, she has found him less…annoying. Maybe it's because he seems just as determined as she is to bring the right people to justice, or maybe it's just that she's finally gotten used to him bugging her. Maybe, the idealistic side of her is thinking that he's not as bad as he seems, that that playboy image is just as image and he's still that sweet man she met ten years ago.

Even so, when he asks her out, she knows she can't say yes.

And when she tells him that he has no idea, she thinks in her head an extension of that sentence.

"_You have no idea who I am."_

* * *

**A/N: I know a lot of you are keen for me to continue through season 1. I think I've thought of a way I'd like to do that for at least a few episodes, though I really don't want to stay massively close to the episodes, so please do tell me whether you thought this chapter was too close/not close enough to Flowers for your Grave. If you would also like to see a chapter for every episode of season 1 (or even beyond) tell me that too. The next few chapters will probably be quite delayed, as I'll need to rewatch the episodes before and whilst writing each chapter to avoid making mistakes and also because I'm also about to start uploading another story, so if you don't want to miss updates and you haven't already done it, I would recommend that you follow this story. **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Some of you may have already seen that I posted the little oneshot story linked to this one, fleshing out what went on when Kate disappeared. If you haven't, what are you waiting for? Joking aside, feel free to read or if you don't want to, that's totally fine too. Those of you who have read it and have let me know what you thought, thank you. I'm so glad to see so many of you enjoyed it. Thank you also from the bottom of my heart for your continued support for this story. **

* * *

It's been a week and he still can't tell. Some days he thinks he sees flashes and flares of recognition in her eyes. He thinks he hears a guarded tone when she asks him a question, something that makes him think she might already know his answer. It's there when he quizzes her, falling back time and time again on the 'research' excuse. He wonders if it's just reluctance that makes her hesitate, the fact that she doesn't want her entire life story painted as fiction in his book, or that she doesn't want to shoot herself in the foot and reveal too much. Other days he tells himself he's being ridiculous; she just doesn't appreciate him tagging along for the ride on all of her cases.

He can write down all the things he knows about her and the few facts fit onto one sheet of paper. She's not married, nor has she ever been. She doesn't have any kids. Or siblings. Just a bunch of aunts and uncles and cousins she hardly ever sees. She hasn't denied that she never intended to be a cop, but she hasn't told him what career she dreamed of ending up in either.

It's got to the point now that he thinks he wouldn't even care if he never found out whether Detective Beckett is the same woman as Katherine Harlow, so long as he got to know more about the woman who's inspired what he's sure is going to be his best character and novel yet.

He actually knows he should be writing about Nikki instead of constantly ruminating on his new muse, but she's driving him crazy. Ever since his first spark of inspiration, the night after the Alison Tisdale case when he churned out two whole chapters without even stopping, he's not managed to write a word. It's not Nikki captivating him anymore. It's that need to know more. After all, how can he write Nikki when he still doesn't really know Detective Kate Beckett?

* * *

When she rings and tells him she's got a case, that he should meet her at Central Park he sees it as an opportunity to find some more notes for his page. By the end of the case though, when they've tricked Brandon into confessing, there are only two, messy new lines scribbled onto it when he was in the men's room – one of which is crossed through when she tells him that her line to the prep students was just that: a line, leaving him with the fact that she went to public school. After a bit more digging, she finally confesses that she was a student at Stuyvesant High School, but it's like pulling out someone's fingernails getting information out of her.

His list of observations gets a couple more bullets though, and he hopes that it'll be easier to refocus on Nikki Heat for a day or too. Beckett's determined, got a slight guilt complex and she's not easily flustered, he notes, as proved by Brandon's attempts at getting a rise from her during his interrogation – God, he could have hit that kid. He wasn't as disrespectful as that when Beckett pulled him in during the Tisdale case, was he? He has a sinking feel he was.

As she sits at her desk, finishing up a few little things – things he has no clue about because every time he tries to get a closer look, she kicks his shin just like when she pinched his ear as he snooped on her phone call – he says, "So about this poker game you want in on?"

"Yeah?"

The end of her pen is trapped between her teeth as she looks up from the files on her desk and cocks an eyebrow at him.

"You have to _swear _that you won't give anything to Patterson or Cannell about our little partnership here?"

He gestures between the two of them and a flash of indignation runs through her. The word partnership implies that they're both willing participants, but in her eyes he's been foisted on her. All those little euphemisms and comments he's made, that line about lonely single mothers; she's glad that she never became one of those women that New Year's Eve. She'll concede that he's not quite so much of a jackass anymore, but he's still not an actual cop.

"_If he thinks this is anything but temporary, he's deluded_."

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I'm actually going to be pretty busy for a week or two-" she tries, now regretting her comment about joining his poker game, since he was just as easy to fool as the group of seniors they spoke with right after they found Donny Kendall's body. She needs to remember to be more careful with what she says to avoid these awkward situations as much as the truth she's still hiding.

"-Not to worry, Detective Beckett, the poker train isn't rolling into town until the 17th."

She nods, thinking she can always blow him off later.

He checks the time on his watch, wishing he could stay longer – ask her about where she went to college, since he now knows where she went to high school – but he needs to get back if he and Alexis are going to get to her school before the group leave for DC.

He stands, getting a near perfect view down the front of her green blouse as he pushes his arms into his jacket. "Until Tuesday, Detective."

Her murmur back is distracted, her attention refocused on her paperwork as she says, "See you, Castle."

Alexis is asleep on the bus, her head resting against his shoulder while he tries to convince himself that it's not a good idea to bribe his way into getting his hands on Beckett's school records. She would definitely shoot him if she found out he'd done that. He just wishes she would be more open with him – he's meant to be writing a character based on her, for God's sake.

* * *

Her eyes actually feel painful, tiredness and strain taking their toll after hours of staring at the murder board after another fitful night's sleep. When she removes her makeup before sinking into the bath, the deep circles that seem to constantly mark the skin around her eyes are still there.

She won't admit it, but he's managed to worm him way under her skin again. Five minutes with him in a bookstore was enough ten years ago to have her flirting with him over a few too many vodka and cokes. In some ways it's like he never left her. She's had his words every day. She'd be lying if she said she didn't hear them in his voice every time she reads his books, if she said she hadn't pictured him reading them to her at least once.

A part of her thinks she should just tell him all about that night in the bar, that it was her. But it's a small part of her, and the rest of her knows that to do so would just be more hassle than it's worth. He probably wouldn't even care about that little white lie she told him, the fact that she never corrected any of his assumptions about her. All he'd want to know about would be her wild child ways, and those are probably the only years she doesn't want to think about.

Shaking her head, she scoots forward in the bathtub and lies back until she's completely submerged in water. She needs to stop this, stop letting herself get caught up with thinking that he's looking for anything more than a one night stand. This whole writing-a-character-based-on-you thing is just one more ploy of his, another desperate attempt to get into her pants – not that she's ever going to let that happen.

When the water starts to get cold, she pulls the plug on the bath, sending the water whirling down the drain as she starts to towel herself dry before padding into her bedroom. His book, _Death of Prom Queen, _catches her eye like it has every night since she arrested him. Ever since then she's not been able to pick the book back up. Instead of continuing to read it, she's left it sitting on her bedside table. Her fingers itch with habit once she's switched off the overhead light, leaving only the bedside light on.

Tearing her gaze from the book, she flicks off the remaining light and turns onto her side, determined to ignore this effect that Richard Castle is having on her once again. While she waits for sleep to take her, she can feel the book's presence almost like he's in the room with her. It's tantalising, she knows, to just turn the light back on, run her fingers over the cover of one of the books that brought her so much comfort during the months and years after her mother's cruel murder. But touching the front cover will never be enough.

She groans with frustration, tightening her grip on the sheets covering her, squeezing her eyes tight shut at the thought of lying awake for hours for another night. She wishes that for at least one night she could sleep properly, that she could get over this ridiculous attraction she has for him. More than anything, she wishes that she'd never had to arrest him.

* * *

**A/N: I've decided not to do every single episode of season one simply because I probably wouldn't have enough time to write a chapter for every single one now that the end of my term is about a month away and I need to start focusing on assignments as well. Instead, I'll probably write chapters like this, that go across multiple episodes and have added or missing scenes. I hope this format is okay with you guys. Apologies for the less than exciting chapter. The next one should be a lot more interesting, Scout's honour. I'd still really appreciate your thoughts though, so leave a review if you've got time. Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Apologies again for the wait for this chapter. I've changed my mind a lot concerning the content of this chapter. I even had something written then decided to use that for later in the story. Anyways, excuses aside, I hope you like this chapter. **

* * *

He checks over his shoulder to be sure Javier Esposito has left before he flips open Johanna Beckett's case file. His eyes had caught for a moment on the photograph of her mother attached to the front, searching for Kate. Her eyes, it seems, are exact copies of her mother's. They both have the same startling flash of golden amber ringed around the iris and the sea of deep, forest green and hazelnut outside that, the colours he felt like he was drowning in when she turned those sorrowful eyes on him and told him her mother's story, the story of why she became a cop.

_By the way, it was my mother._

He can still see the haunted look in her eyes; hear the hesitance in her voice as she divulged her carefully guarded secret.

_We were supposed to go to dinner together – my mom, my dad and I, and she was gonna meet us at the restaurant, but she never showed. Two hours later, we went home and there was a detective waiting for us. Detective Raglan. They had found her body. She had been stabbed._

Looking at the photos of the crime scene, stabbed doesn't half cover it, he thinks. It wasn't as if it was just the one knife wound; they were all over her body.

_She still had her money and purse and jewellery. And it wasn't a sexual assault either. They attributed it to gang violence. A random wayward event. So, just like in Melanie's case, they couldn't think outside of the box so they tried to package it up nicely. And the killer was never caught._

He understands now why she's so closed off.

_This is for the life that I saved. And…this is for the life that I lost._

_So I guess your Nikki Heat has a backstory now, Castle._

The thought that she's read this file, seen these pictures, that kind of worries him. Normally, the relatives of a victim would never see that. He wonders what it did to her, before realising that the photos and the official reports probably only made her more determined to solve her mother's case.

The photo given to the police for the case file has Johanna Beckett smiling. Even though he hasn't seen a proper smile from her daughter, knows that she doesn't smile willingly at him, he can tell she inherited her mother's mouth too. It would be nice, he thinks, to see her smile enough to get her mother's smile lines.

After sitting down at the desk in the archive, he starts reading. Inside the file, he reads all the reports, the interviews, drawing short when he comes across the interview conducted with Kate. There, attached by paperclip to the piece of paper, is the face of Katherine Harlow.

All the breath rushes out of him in an instant, loud where it rattles in the back of his throat.

It's her, without a doubt. The long, lustrous curls of golden hair he dreamt about for so many nights hang around her youthful face. But it's those eyes he's become so familiar with that he stares at. In the picture, they still hold all of their light and life, just like they did when he first met her.

Kate Beckett is the woman he met at his booksigning, the woman he ran into on New Year's Eve.

But this realisation brings a whole new problem. Now that he knows, what does he do? Should he tell her he knows it's her? There has to be a reason why she hasn't told him. Right?

He's still questioning what to do when he puts the file back in the box Esposito drew it from and leaves the precinct. He groans at his own indecisiveness while he waits for a cab he can flag down to drive by, trying desperately to tamp down the urge to go to her apartment – not that he even knows exactly where she lives, just the general area. He would spend hours going door to door, ringing every buzzer if he had to though.

By the time he's home, he's almost settled with the idea of keeping silent, but the drive to know why she never told him that they'd met before – despite all of his ribbing questions about whether she'd ever attended one of his signings (since he knows she's obviously such a big fan of his) – burns within him.

It's a rare occasion where he needs his mother's advice. It's lucky for him that on this evening, she's not out with a gentleman caller, but is instead enjoying a large glass of wine at his kitchen counter while his daughter works on her homework.

"You're back late," she comments as he shuts the door and approaches them. "Katherine corral you into doing your share of the paperwork?"

He chuckles, knowing that that's the response she expects from him. "Something like that," he indulges, allowing a moment to pass before he asks, "If you knew something about someone but they didn't know you knew, would you talk to them about it?"

His mother scrutinises him as she answers, "That's very vague, Richard. What kind of information are we talking about here?"

"Say you'd, I don't know, knew that this person had lied about something they told you? Or they'd neglected to tell you at all?" He shrugs, tries to be cavalier with the way he drops the question, as if it's an irrelevant example, but he can't meet his mother's eyes since he's well aware that she knows his mind well enough to guess that he could only be talking about Kate Beckett.

It's Alexis who answers first, not even looking up from her homework until she's finished the equation she's currently working on. "Lies never get you anywhere, Dad."

He nods, but he can't help thinking that lies or rather the un-acknowledgement of them are sometimes necessary. He knows without a doubt that confronting Kate Beckett would only result in her kicking him out of the precinct and never speaking to him again. And that was if he was lucky. Most likely, she'd threaten first to castrate him, feed him to the police dogs, remind him of that gun that was constantly strapped to her side and he'd walk away cowering, too afraid to return.

He sighs again, throwing himself onto the couch.

_What to do?_

* * *

She's only just got off the phone with her Dad, smiling slightly because he was filled with such good spirits at another month of great AA meetings and sobriety. Those early years after her mother's death were filled with so many failed attempts, promises broken after just a few days when he would somehow manage to sneak a bottle or two past her. The last five years have been his longest run without a drink. She's so proud.

As she stirs her sauce and pasta together, she hopes she hasn't made a big mistake telling him about her mom. The last thing she wants is for her own personal tragedy to be splashed around the media. She doesn't even think about whether telling him about her mom will be the crucial piece of the puzzle for him, whether he'll ask her outright if she was the girl he quite nearly slept with ten years ago. All she cares about is what he's going to do with the knowledge of her mother's murder.

* * *

The quiet rush of the precinct, the low level of chatter, the occasional ring of a telephone, the grind of the elevator doors opening on the homicide floor every so often, the muffled noises of traffic outside – none of it does much to distract her from her worries while she waits for him to come in for the morning. Every time she hears the elevator doors slide open accompanied by the ding of the contraption stopping on their floor has her looking up so quickly she's beginning to develop a crick in the neck.

Finally though when she looks up she sees him stepping off with what has become the usual two Styrofoam cups of coffee. Hers is placed beside her elbow on her desk, she sees it out of the corner of her eyes as she stares resolutely at her paperwork, unable to meet his eyes because she can't help fearing seeing pity there.

"So, do we have a case?" he asks, folding his coat over the back over the chair that now sits permanently beside her desk.

Relief floods through her at that because it's normal. There's nothing in his voice, no emotion other than slight interest and it means she can glance up and tell him with a completely straight face, "You know we don't _always _have a case, right, Castle?"

He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee before replying, "It's much more fun when we do." He watches as her eyes roll at that and thinks he's made the right decision, that it'll be better to wait her out, to get her to tell him.

* * *

**A/N: So, any thoughts? Do let me know. I really appreciate those of you who do review and tell me what you think. So far, this story has been uncharted ground for me – I've never really done much AU stuff, and when I started the story, I had no idea what I was going to do with it once it hit canon territory. So your feedback and opinions are that much more important. Also, if there are mistakes of any kind that you may spot, just let me know though fingers crossed there aren't any. **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: So this was kind of more what I planned for the last chapter, at least setting-wise. Things are starting to begin to move along now, obviously.**

* * *

It had been a long day, she knew she should be heading home but the boys were determined to go out for a few drinks since they haven't done that for weeks, and once Lanie was invited along it became almost impossible for her to refuse.

"Come on, Beckett," Ryan had pleaded. "Just one drink with us."

"Girl, you need to get out more."

"Yeah, Chica," Espo had added. "One beer and then we won't argue if you leave. Writer Boy's even coming-"

She rolled her eyes even as Lanie jumped back on the bandwagon and told her that if Castle was going it was all the more reason for her to go, so she could jump his bones.

So that's how she finds herself sat in one of New York City's better bars, perching on a stool while she waits with Richard Castle to take the next round of drinks back to the booth their group has commandeered.

"So that's one scotch, one Magners cider, a white wine spritzer, a Budweiser and a vodka and Coke," the barman announces, placing the collection of bottles and glasses down on top of the bar once he's finished gathering and mixing everything.

"Vodka and coke," Castle says while she hands over everyone's money. "It's been a long time since I've been with someone who drank that particular drink – probably almost ten years exactly."

She swallows dryly, fighting to keep her eyes from flicking to look at him. She knows if she'd taken a mouthful of her vodka and coke, it would have been spat back out on the bartop.

_Relax, he could be talking about anybody. If he knew, he'd have said something. This is Richard Castle – the guy probably couldn't keep a secret even if someone paid him._

Instead of rising to his bait, she calmly picks up the few glasses she can carry – hers and Lanie's, and asks, "What's so wrong with vodka and Coke?" He doesn't need to know that were she not scheduled to work the next day, she'd probably be doing shots with Lanie rather than keeping a cool head with diluted vodka, a drink that now only gives her a slight buzz rather than makes her outrageously tipsy as it did when she first drank it with him.

"Nothing," he assures her. "I just pictured you-"

"-What? Throwing back tequila shots like they're juice?" She meets his eyes and watches as they narrow. "I only do that on my nights off."

"Yeah, right." Somehow the insinuation in his eyes that even she wouldn't be able to quite manage that makes her want to spin on her heel and return to the bar to order a round of tequila along with salt and limes.

Quickening her pace, she settles for going back to their booth and throwing herself into a conversation with Lanie that he can't interrupt. She can feel his eyes on her though, watching the careful way she sips the fizzy liquid, pursing her lips as it bubbles her on her tongue. The way she laughs at Lanie's story about actually thinking one of the bodies in the morgue had moved is slightly maniacal, entirely too forced. It doesn't take a genius to see it. But Lanie is far too attuned to her mannerisms, knows her too well, to not notice, and before she's really aware of what's happening, her best friend has her up and out of her seat, towing her into the bathroom by a vice-like grip around her elbow.

"Okay, spill," Lanie orders the second the door closes.

The picture of innocence, Kate widens of eyes, a slight smile curling the corners of her mouth. "What?"

Lanie fixes her with a look. "Don't you give me that, Kate Beckett. Something's up with you, so tell me what it is."

She shrugs and maintains an air of confusion until Lanie crosses her arms and leans back against the door, blocking her exit. Then it all comes blurting out. She tells her how she met Castle all those years ago and all her worries, her indecisions over what to do.

"-Does he know?" Lanie interrupts when she's nearing the end of her story.

Kate throws up her hands. "Who knows! He looks at me sometimes and I swear- I mean just now he says it's been ten years since he drank with someone who ordered vodka and coke. Why would he say that if he didn't know?"

"But he hasn't asked outright?"

Kate shakes her head.

Lanie sounds careful as she says, "Is there a reason you haven't just told him that you've met before?" A loaded silence settles between them. _Why hasn't she said anything?_ "You don't have feelings for him do you?"

* * *

He chuckles absentmindedly at what Javi said, knowing he's expecting to laugh only because beside him Ryan is in hysterics. Instead of paying attention to the conversation they seem to think he's involved in, he stares at the long-gone path Kate and Lanie had woven between people to get to the Ladies' room, wondering when she'll be coming back.

He's thinking back to their little conversation at the bar. He'd tried chatting to her while the bartender pulled Ryan's pint of cider and popped the top off of Javi's beer before pouring out his scotch and mixing Kate's vodka and Coke and Lanie's spritzer, but she'd seemed disinterested. If he was honest, she'd been particularly reclusive ever since she told him about her mother's case.

It's been weeks since then. Weeks since he read the file Esposito gave him on the down low. Weeks since he saw that picture, _her _picture. And she still hasn't said anything. He fears she never will. Especially if she doesn't come back from the ladies' room soon. Perhaps that risky comment was just that: _too_ risky.

He's shocked into motion when someone taps his shoulder. As soon as his head whips around, he's suddenly surrounded, all-encompassed, by the most alluring scent he's ever had the pleasure to smell.

"So, what do you say, Castle? Think you can keep up with me?" she asks, holding out an over-spilling shot-glass of tequila to him.

He's oblivious to Lanie's wide smirk, the way Javi and Ryan have stopped laughing and are staring at Beckett in shock. He can't seem to stop questioning how she even managed to sneak up on him when he was literally staring at the door the entire time she was in the bathroom. His brain doesn't want to work. He knows that the question has gone unanswered too long, that it's gotten awkward and she's shuffling her feet a little as though she doesn't quite know what to do; but he's literally tongue-tied. When did his tongue become so big? If he wasn't quite so focused on Katherine Beckett, the way she's shaken her hair out more, got it framing her face rather than flicking away from her neck at the very tips; he'd probably be seriously considering the possibility that he was suffering an allergic reaction.

Instead of speaking, he raises his hand – the movement far smoother than he thought he was capable of, especially in his delirious haze – and takes hold of one of the glasses, toasting her before knocking it back and swallowing the liquid, enjoying the way it sears and burns for a moment in the back of his throat.

"Guess that's a yes then," she mutters before taking her own shot. "Come on." Her hands pull him out of the booth, fingers gripping his bicep and seeming to tighten almost reflexively while he wonders where exactly she's dragging him until she pushes him onto a stool at the bar and signals for two more shots from the barman.

"Wait, wait, if we're going to do this, then we've got to do it right," he tells her, holding up his hands before turning his attention to the barman and calling, "Limes and salt too, please."

* * *

How has she never noticed how muscled his arms are? She can't help the teasing, testing squeeze of her fingers as she leads him to the bar. The dress shirts, blazers and thick wool coat he's been wearing all winter have been too concealing clearly.

She watches from the corner of her eye as he licks the skin on his thenar space before tilting the salt shaker over and tapping it on the end a few times, sending a sprinkle of salt onto the back of his hand. As soon as he's done, he slides it down the few inches of distance of barspace between them. By the time she's sprinkled her own salt, he's already licked his off and downed his shot and is picking up his lime.

He looks expectantly at her when he's done. "Keep up, Beckett. I thought you drank tequila like juice."

She squares her jaw and narrows her eyes, maintaining eye contact with him as she licks the salt off her hand doing it as slowly and seductively as she can manage, before tilting her shot glass the barest amount, the sharp flick of her wrist sending the pale amber liquid down her throat. It bursts on her tongue, a sudden influx of spice and pepper that refuses to diffuse in the back of her throat. Her tastebuds tingle, finding a slight, tantalising taste of caramel. The corner of her lips curl as she sees him gaping at her. What possesses her to offer him her wedge of lime though and open her mouth wide, she doesn't know. By the time her brain catches up with her body, it's too late – he's taken the piece of fruit from her and is pinching the two ends together to squeeze the citrus juice out.

The juice drops mostly into her mouth, eliciting a tiny moan of pleasure from her, though the sound was obviously audible to his ears. His fingers jerk the tiniest of amounts, but the damage is done and a trickle of juice runs down her chin. Before she can dart out for it with her tongue, or swipe the liquid away with the back of her hand, he's leaning forwards and catching it for her. With his tongue.

* * *

He sees her eyes darken, as affected by him as he is by her. God, the way she licked her hand – she had to know what kind of pictures sprang up in his mind right? How much better this little contest they had would be if it were back at his loft or her apartment, where there was no-one there to disturb them.

Before he can suffer a reality check, he shifts and places his lips over hers.

* * *

**A/N: Yeah, I know, horrid place to end. It will get continued in the next chapter so not to worry, I just want a little more time to really think through my plan for what happens next, but I thought I'd give you guys something as it's been a few weeks since I last updated this story. Thank you everyone who has reviewed and/or added this story to their alerts and favourites.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thank yous go to phnxgrl, htbuzz, hfce, TORONTOSUN, shellee3, zombiede, rckbfan90, alwayscastle2, saifos and the anonymous people for reviewing! I'm glad so many of you guys are enjoying this story. After my cliffhanger ending, I already had some of this chapter written and wanted to give it to you a bit earlier. I hope you like it.**

* * *

His kiss sears. There's no way to describe it. It's fierier than the tequila she can taste lingering on him. It's passionate. More passionate than it has any right to be. Scorching heat consumes her and she can't even tell where it's coming from. Is it him, the way he's suddenly all around her, in her space? Or is it her and that coil of arousal in her core? There's no way to know. She can't even think. Not when his unbelievably soft lips are caressing hers, tongue teasing her until her mouth falls open. All she can do is return the pressure his mouth is putting on hers.

Suddenly one of his hands is at her back, canting her into him. Her nostrils fill with the scent of his cologne and impossibly it's the same one as that night ten years ago. It's cloying, filling her senses and making her feel claustrophobic because she can finally feel the tight grip his fingers are maintaining on her waist.

Breaking apart from him, she gasps out, "This was a mistake."

She's gone in an instant, just like that night the last time their lips met. But this time he calls after her, follows her out into the cold night and catches her leaning breathlessly against the wall, breathing so quickly she could be mistaken for having a panic attack. Every inhale and exhale catches in her throat, an audible wheeze reaching his ears.

"Kate," he says, making her flinch. But she doesn't answer, just turns her head further away from him. He tries again, softer this time, her name just a murmur on his lips.

The way she moves, so slowly – so obviously reluctant to meet his eyes – it kills him a little bit inside.

Her voice comes out in a rasp before she clears her throat and tries again. "I should-I should go. Sorry." It still comes out lowly, but at least she feels dignified enough to turn and walk away, all too aware of his eyes boring into the back of her head as he stares after her.

She doesn't break. Not until she gets back to her dark apartment and shuts the door behind her. Then she's leaning her forehead against the door and cursing herself for actually listening to Lanie's advice.

"_You don't have feelings for him, do you?"_

A shaky laugh wobbles out of her. That's such a stupid question, isn't it? Feelings for him? Sure, she has a lot of feelings for Richard Castle. Annoyance. Impatience. Frustration. Anger. But she also admires him. She respects him – sometimes anyway. She appreciates him. She cares about him, though she'll admit it's still funny when he tries ducking under the police tape and gets a mouthful of plastic because he's still talking a mile a minute.

"_Feelings? For Castle?!"_

"_Don't you give me that look, Kate. I see the way you two interact and you can deny it all you want, but there's definitely something there."_

"_What are you saying?"_

"_I'm saying that maybe you should take a chance with him."_

"Cause that worked out," she thinks bitterly to herself, spinning so her back rests on the door. Seconds after her head connects with the wood, a knock on the door vibrates through her.

_No… He wouldn't-_

"Beckett!" he yells, bashing against the door with the side of his hand – each impact jarring her skull.

She stays silent, hoping that he'll go away thinking she's not in.

"I know you're in there. Open the door dammit."

* * *

That elusive taste of vanilla and whatever else it is – something that he can't put his finger on – that Detective Beckett tastes of coats his lips. He's dazed as he presses his fingers to his mouth, staring after her, shocked that once again she's run away from him. It's strange. She doesn't seem like the kind of person who would run from anything, and yet there he is watching her retreating figure.

Shoving his hands deep in his pockets, Rick wanders back into the bar with the idea that he can have one more drink – something strong – before heading home. He's barely in through the door when Lanie pulls him aside.

"Castle? Where's Kate? I thought you two were heading home together."

"She…" He trails off. What's he supposed to say?

Sighing, Lanie says, "She left, didn't she?" She groans. "That woman, God, I swear she just wants to stay miserable, be lonely. She's her own worst enemy." He stands in silence, listening to Lanie talking to herself. And the she says his name. "Castle, what I'm about to do, it's for her benefit, okay?"

He nods slowly and then she sticks her hand into his jacket pocket, comes out with his notepad – the one he writes down everything about Kate in. Luckily for him Lanie doesn't seem bothered in perusing it's pages; she just flips through to a blank page before tearing it out.

"You got a pen?"

His fingers fumble to pull it out, almost dropping it before handing it to her.

While she writes, using her hand as the flat surface she needs to lean on, she asks, "How drunk are you?"

"You mean the pen? I'm fine – I've only had a scotch and a few tequila shots. I can take much more than that." No, it's not the alcohol coursing through his system that's making him so clumsy. It's her. It's always her.

She nods, accepting his answer. But he can't even focus on that. She has to force his fingers closed around the piece of paper she was writing on and when he looks blankly at her explain, "It's her address – Kate's address."

* * *

"Beckett, let me in. Trust me; I have no qualms about staying out here all night and waking up the neighbours."

He still looks surprised though when the door opens and she stands facing him, shoulders drawn tense and ready for a fight. She's just about to demand, "What, Castle?" when he speaks.

"You left."

Just two words, but they're still full of accusation.

"You kissed me," she counters.

"Yeah, I guess I did, but you kissed me first, Kate."

"What?" she gasps. She can't breathe and they're still stood in her doorway. If any of her neighbours are awake, they're now privy to her secrets and lies too.

"You heard me. You. Kissed. Me. First. Kate." Each word is punctuated with a step forwards, a stride that pushes her backwards into her apartment. He pauses. "Or should I call you Katherine Harlow."

"You know?" It doesn't even need to be a question. It's obvious he knows. But she's reeling, physically backpedalling to get away from him. She can't even get her brain kicked into gear. She always thought that when it came out, if it ever came out, that she'd be asking him how he found out; but she doesn't even have the presence of mind for that. She's too distracted by the intense look he's fixed on her. She knows what he's going to do before he does it, can see the action in his determined eyes.

* * *

Her hands land on the table behind her. She's got nowhere left to run to now. He knows he shouldn't. He knows it's wrong, that he'll be stepping over the line. But he can't resist. That smell, it's stronger here – more concentrated in her apartment. He finally knows what it is – cherries. It's so appealing – even more so than her kiss-swollen lips. If her wary gaze is anything to go by, she knows exactly where his eyes are focusing. But she doesn't protest when his hands land on top of hers. Or when he leans in towards her and pushes one of his legs in between hers. Not even when he brushes his lips over hers, hesitantly at first before his lust becomes insatiable.

"Wait, wait!" she gasps out against his demanding lips, leaning backwards over her own table so she can see him when she asks, "don't you hate me?"

"Why would I hate you?" he murmurs, his body following hers the more she tilts away from him. It's like she has some kind of magnetic pull over him. He just can't resist her.

"Because I lied, about my age, about who I was. And I kept it from you-"

"-Don't care," he mutters before kissing her again, silencing whatever else she was going to say.

* * *

**A/N: Let me know what you guys think. There's a possibility that this could go M rated in the next few chapters, so also please tell me whether you would be opposed to that. Thanks for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Apologies for the late update this time around. Internet difficulties conspired against me and I also had a hard to decision to make with this chapter. While most of you said you were completely fine with me bumping the rating of this story up to M, others in your number said they would rather I kept this rated to T. With that in mind, I decided that I would keep this chapter and those that will follow as a T, but post the M rated version of this chapter (and any others that may follow – I haven't thought that far ahead yet) as separate stories. That way, this story stays T rated, but those of you who wanted to read the M rated stuff still can. The story is called 'Notches on the Bedpost' Because of this, obviously I had two chapters to write – in addition to my other stories – so it took me a little longer. Hopefully, you guys are okay with this decision and still enjoy this chapter. **

* * *

His lips are barely on hers for more than a second before they're moving down to her neck, lathing over where her pulse pounds against her skin. Her traitorous body works against her, hands rising to lock around his neck and pin him in place against her because _damn him_ the way he's working his mouth over her skin feels _good_. Not just in a you're-a-pretty-good-kisser way but in a holy-shit-take-me-now way. How he knows _exactly _where her sensitive spot is – the one that literally makes her weak in the knees and has her gripping tightly to his biceps – would be a pressing issue if her mind wasn't clouded with lust.

It takes him mere seconds to take off her coat and unbutton her shirt and then his hands are on her, everywhere all at once. Her skin erupts in a trail of gooseflesh everywhere his calloused fingers touch her skin and she trembles under his ministrations, warmth pooling in her middle when his lips find her clavicle.

She's not even moved, her muscles seemingly locked in place – the hold she has on his head probably painful now – and yet he's still kissing her, unperturbed by her lack of reciprocation. Hell, she's actually embarrassed by the fact that he's managed to take off her shirt and is fingering the clasp of her bra, _teasing _her and she hasn't made a single move towards equalling their level of dress. He's already had to remove his own coat.

"Where's the bedroom?" he mumbles against her skin, startling her into movement finally. When she spins, his hands land somewhere near her waist and his lips press against her neck, the tip of his nose disturbing her hair as he deliberately inhales the aroma of cherries. Her breath catches and she gasps audibly. She feels him grinning in response, his smug smile etching into her back when he ducks and presses a kiss between her shoulder blades. She gets the last laugh though. Reaching a hand back and palming him through his pants earns her a strangled noise before she releases him and leads the way into her dark bedroom, saucily swaying her hips because she knows he's watching.

* * *

Only the moonlight illuminates her naked form. It shines off of the thin film of sweat that coats her body, showing her chest rapidly rising and falling while she comes down from her euphoric high. God, it's beautiful, he thinks. _She's _beautiful.

"That was-" he breaks off, tries desperately to think of a word that appropriately describes how _earth-shattering _that experience was before only lamely coming up with, "wow!" He doesn't notice her flinch when he splays one of his palms across her stomach or the way her eyes flick to him before filling with regret.

She jerks upright and grabs for the bedsheet, covering her modesty from him.

"Kate?" he asks, propping himself on his elbow, looking at her with concern.

The use of her first name makes her cringe and want to bolt for the door but she tames the reaction and instead forces herself to look at him. "This was a mistake. Y-you should go, Castle." After that she stands and walks into her bathroom, desperately trying not to show how much her legs shake, and locks the door behind her, running a shower. He can hear the water and for a minute he stays there lying on her bed and staring, expecting the door to open again and for her to walk out and say she was joking because how could something so perfect, so _right_ have been a mistake. When it's clear she's not coming out, he stands and shuffles about her bedroom, numbly collecting his clothes.

* * *

Hesitance pervades as she eases the door open and then breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of her empty bedroom. He's gone, thankfully. Not that she'd expected him to stick around, not after he'd made his conquest.

She tiptoes barefoot, clad only in the towel she'd wrapped around her body after showering, through her dark apartment to make sure her front door is deadbolted. On the way back to her bedroom, she doesn't bother turning lights on, but at the sight of her messy bed she halts. It's a shameful reminder of what she's just left happen. Instead she grabs a blanket so she can sleep on the couch for the night. She wants a peaceful night's sleep, but the ghost of his touch refuses to leave her. She can still feel his fingers digging into the skin of her hips, remembers the scrape of his stubble on the insides of her thighs. The memory of him burns on her skin and in her memory.

When she stumbles into work the next morning, with tired and bloodshot eyes hidden beneath layer upon layer of makeup, she just wants the day to be over. She's hoping for a chance to work through the pile up of paperwork on her desk rather than an open case. She doesn't have the energy to think hard enough to solve a case and it kills her a little bit inside that she's going to be failing at her job today.

"Beckett." It's curt and it jolts her in her chair.

"Castle, what are you doing here?" she hisses, launching her body out of her chair and hussling him straight into the breakroom. "Out!" It's an order, a command that gets the two junior detectives straight into the bullpen even though she technically has no authority over them. As she shuts the blinds, she sees both Esposito and Ryan peering over from their desks, blatantly spying. The sigh stokes her fire, feeds and fuels her ire. "You shouldn't be here."

"I came to work," he argues, nettled by her harsh and cold tone. "I need to observe you, remember? For my book?"

"No, you need to leave. I don't want you here."

"Why? Because we slept together? Because you lied to me? Why, Beckett?"

Her steel eyes bore through him as she grits her teeth, and then yells, "Shut up, Castle!"

They're toe to toe and though she's wearing a pair of her stiletto-heeled boots, he's still an inch or two taller than her. Her eyes blaze no less though as she glares up at him, the both of them locked in some kind of bubble of anger.

Suddenly, though, the door is open and Esposito is looking in, eyes moving between them. "There a problem here?"

"No," Beckett replies tightly before squeezing past. From her desk she watches Castle join Espo at Ryan's desk, the three of them gossiping like mother hens. Her heart sinks as she watches Esposito bump fists with him. The idea that he's told Ryan and Espo is unbearable, even more so than knowing that she has just become another notch on his bedpost.

* * *

**A/N: Let me know what you thought!**

**Also, I am so sorry I have been unable to reply to your reviews from the last chapter. As I briefly said earlier, I've had no internet since Monday. What I'm using to upload this is a day pass I had to buy and it's about to run out. I read every single one of your reviews though and I'm so grateful that so many of you take the time to tell me what you think. I'm glad you're enjoying the story. **


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